Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 99.

December 6, 1890.

MODERN TYPES.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN TYPE WRITER._)

NO. XXII.--THE MANLY MAIDEN.

The Manly Maiden may be defined as the feminine exaggeration of those rougher qualities which men display in their intercourse with one another, or in the pursuit of those sports in which courage, strength, and endurance play a part. In a fatal moment she conceives the idea that she can earn the proud title of "a good fellow" by emulating the fashions and the habits of the robuster sex. She perceives that men have a liking for men who are strong, bluff, outspoken, and contemptuous of peril, and she infers mistakenly, that the same tribute of admiration is certain to be paid to a woman who, setting the traditions of her sex at defiance, consciously apes the manly model without a thought of all that the imitation involves. She forgets that as soon as a woman steps down of her own free will from the pedestal on which the chivalrous admiration of men has placed her, she abandons at once her claim to that flattering reticence of speech, and that specially attentive courtesy of bearing, which are in men the outward and visible signs of the spiritual grace which they assume as an attribute of all women. In spite of what the crazy theorists of the perfect equality school may say, men still continue to expect and to admire in women precisely those qualities in which they feel themselves to be chiefly deficient. Their reverence and affection are bestowed upon her whose voice is ever soft, gentle and low, and whose mild influence is shed like a balm upon the labours and troubles of life. Of slang, and of slaps upon the back, of strength, whether of language or of body, they get enough and to spare amongst themselves, and they are scarcely to be blamed if at certain moments they should prefer refinement to roughness, and gentleness to gentlemen. However, these obvious considerations have no weight with the Manly Maiden. In fact they never occur to her, and hence arise failures, and humiliations, and disappointments not a few.

The Manly Maiden is not, as a rule, the natural product of a genuine country life. The daughter of rich parents, who have spent a great part of their lives in a centre of commercial activity, she is introduced to a new home in the country at about the age of fourteen. Seeing that all those who live in the neighbourhood are in one way or another associated with outdoor sports, and that the favour in which the men are held and their fame vary directly as their power to ride or to shoot straight, she becomes possessed by the notion that she too must, if she is to please at all, be proficient in the sports of men. Merely to ride to hounds is, of course, not sufficiently distinctive. Many women do that, without losing at all the ordinary characteristics of women. She must ride bare-backed, she must understand a horse's ailments and his points, she must trudge (in the constant society of men) over fallows and through turnips in pursuit of partridges, she must be able to talk learnedly of guns, of powders, and of shot, she must possess a gun of her own, and think she knows how to use it, she must own a retriever, and herself make him submissive by the frequent application of a silver-headed dog-whip.

These attainments are her ideals of earthly bliss, and she sets out to realise them with a terrible perseverance. Her father, of course, knows but little of sport. He is, however, afflicted with the ordinary desire to shine as a sportsman, and as a host of sportsmen. He stocks his coverts with game, and invites large shooting parties to stay with him. He himself takes to a gun as a hen might take to the water; although, as his daughter contemptuously expresses it, he is calculated to miss a hippopotamus at ten yards, he seems to imagine, if one may be permitted to judge from the wild frequency of his shots, that it is the easiest thing in the world to hit a pheasant or a partridge flying at ten times that distance. From such a father the Manly Maiden easily secures permission, first of all, to walk with the men while they are shooting, and subsequently to carry a gun herself.

And now the difficulties of the situation begin to make themselves felt, not, indeed, by her, for she remains sublimely unconscious to the end, but by the men who are compelled to associate with her upon her ventures. No man will ever hesitate to rebuke another for carrying his gun in such a way as to threaten danger; but, when a lady allows him to inspect the inside of her loaded gun-barrels, or shoots down the line at an evasive rabbit, he must suffer in silence, and can only seek compensation for restraining his tongue by incontinently removing his body to a safe place, where he can neither shoot nor be shot. At luncheon, however, he may be gratified by hearing the Manly Maiden rally him on the poor result of his morning's sport. She will then favour him, at length, with her opinions as to how a driven partridge or a rocketing pheasant should be shot, flavouring her discourse with copious extracts from the Badminton books on shooting, and adding here and there imaginative reminiscences of her own exploits in dealing death. In the hunting-field she will lose her groom, and babble sport to the Master, with whom she further ingratiates herself by rating and lashing one of his favourite hounds, or by heading the fox whenever he attempts to break away. She then crosses him at an awkward fence, and considers herself aggrieved by the strong language which breaks irresistibly from the fallen sportsman's lips. Later on she astonishes an elderly follower of the hounds by asking him for a draught from his flask, and completes his amazement by complaining of the thoughtless manner in which he has diluted his brandy.

In the evening she will narrate her adventures at length, amidst a chorus of admiring comments from her fond parents, and their parasites, and will follow up her triumphs of the day by pursuing the men into the smoking-room, where she permits one of them to offer her a cigarette, and imagines that she delights him by accepting it. On such an occasion she will inform one of her friends that, on the whole, she has but a poor opinion of Diana of the Ephesians, seeing that she only hunted with women, and never allowed men to approach her. From this it may be inferred that her stock of classical allusions is not quite so accurate and complete as that of a genuine sportswoman should be. Next morning she may be seen schooling her horses in the park. She has a touching faith in the use both of spur and of whip whenever the occasion seems least to demand them, and she despises the man who rides without rowels, and reverences one who attempts impossible jumps without discrimination. During the summer she spends a considerable part of her time in "getting fit" for the labours of the autumn and winter. Sometimes she even plays cricket, and has been known to address the ball that bowled her in highly uncomplimentary terms.

So the years pass on. She never learns that it is possible for a woman on certain occasions to be in the way of men, nor does her accuracy or her care with a gun increase. If she marries at all, she will marry some feeble creature who has no feeling for sport, and over whom she can lord it to her heart's content. But it is more probable that she will remain unwedded, and will develop eventually from a would-be harding-riding maiden, into a genuinely hard-featured old maid.

* * * * *

A MUSICAL POLE STAR.

The Irish Polar Star Musical, yclept our Paddy REWSKI, gave his last "recital" at St. James's Hall, Thursday, November 27. Bedad, then, 'tis Misther Paddy REWSKI himself that is the broth of a boy entirely at the piano-forte, but, Begorra, he's better at the _piano_ than the _forte._ He gave us a nice mixture of HANDEL, BEETHOVEN, CHOPIN, LISZT, and then a neat little compo of his own, consisting of a charming theme, with mighty ingenious and beautiful variations, all his own, divil a less. Great success for Paddy REWSKI. The Irish Pole, or Pole-ished Irishman, has thoroughly mastered his art, but if he has learnt how to master tune he has not yet perfected himself in _keeping strict time_, as he took his seat at the piano just one quarter of an hour late. Paddy REWSKI, me bhoy, when next you give us a recital, remember that punctuality is the soul of business. _Au revoir_, Paddy REWSKI!

Yours entirely, JIM KRO MESKI.

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ADVICE GRATIS.--Go and see _London Assurance_, with "CHARLES our friend" in it, at the Criterion. It has, probably, never yet been put on the stage as it is _hic et nunc_. Well worth seeing as a _curio_. But what tin-pot nonsense is the Tally-ho speech of _Lady Grace Harkaway_. And yet it has always "gone," and _London Assurance_ itself, like the sly Reynard of the speech, has invariably shown good sport, and given a good run for the money.

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MAD WAGGERY.--_The Chequers_ is not the name of a wayside inn, but of one of those modern inventions calculated to help to fill Colney Hatch. A Puzzle it is, and it can be done--at least so say FELTHAM & CO. Anyhow, they don't sell the solution, they only provide the mystery.

* * * * *

AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS NUMBER (_which is sure not to be forgotten_).--Number One.

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A CAUTION TO SNAKES.

"There is, however, another opinion prevalent among the less educated which gives to the Rattle-snake the vindictive spirit of the North American Indian, and asserts that it adds a new joint to its rattle whenever it has slain a human being, thus bearing in its tail the fearful trophies of its prowess, just as the Indians wear the scalps of slain foes."--_Wood's Natural History_.

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"INGINS is Snakes!" And from its lair This snake seems stirring. Who cries "Scare!"? Well, they who hear the rattle Close at their heels, its spring will dread, And wary watch and cautious tread, And arm as though for battle.

Even to drive the keen-fanged snake From its old home in swamp or brake Irks sensitive humanity; But they who know the untamed thing, Have felt its fang, have seen its spring, Hold mercy mere insanity.

Untamed, untameable, it hides, _Anguis in herbâ_, coils and glides, And strikes when least expected, And who shall blame its watchful foe Who stands prepared to strike a blow, When the swift death's detected?

In the dark jungle dim and damp It lurks, and Civilisation's tramp Disturbs its sanctuary. Hard on the snake? Perchance, perchance! But Civilisation, to advance, Must ruthless be, as wary.

"Vindictive spirit" of the wild, 'Twixt you and Progress' pale-faced child Fated vendetta rages, And Pity's self stands powerless To help you counter with success The onset of the ages.

Long driven, lingeringly you lurk; Steel and starvation ply their work Of slow extermination. Armed once again Columbia stands, And who'd arrest avenging hands, Must challenge--Civilisation.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The Archbishop of CANTERBURY's learned judgment in the Lincoln Case was very much after the style in which His Grace parts his hair. It was a first-rate example of the _Via Media_.

* * * * *

A PAGE FROM A POSSIBLE DIARY.

(_WRITTEN IN THE WILD WEST._)

_Monday_.--Well, here I am. Guess I have got together a pretty tidy Army, that should beat BARNUM into small potatoes. The Arabs from Earl's Court will soon go along straight enough. They seem to miss the Louvre Theatre over yonder, where they were on the free list. Rather a pity I can't start a Show here, but I calculate the country is too disturbed.

_Tuesday_.--Nothing much doing. Sent along to SMALL BITE, and he has promised to come round along with a few of the Ghost-Dancers to let me see what I think of them. Fancy the _ballet_ has been done before. That clever cuss GUS, must have used it at Covent Garden when he put up _Robert the Devil_. It seems like the Nun Ballet--uncommonly.

_Wednesday_.--SMALL BITE is here. He's friendly enough, but his terms are too high. Fancy they must have been trying to annex him for the Aquarium. The Ghost-Dance is a fraud. Nothing in it. Might fake it up a bit with national flags and red fire. But it's decidedly disappointing. Altogether small pumpkins.

_Thursday_.--Settlers want to know when I am going to begin. They are always in such a darned hurry. They ought to know I am the hero of a hundred fights (see my Autobiography--a few copies of which may still be had at the almost nominal price of half-a-dollar) and should rely on me accordingly. Am to visit the Indian Camp to-morrow.

_Friday_.--Terms agreed. SMALL BITE and fifty braves engage themselves for six months certain, sharing terms, travelling exes, and one clear benefit. I find front of the curtain and advertising, they provide entertainment, which is to include Ghost-Dance (with banners and red fire) religious rites, war-dance, and scalping expedition with incidentals (SMALL BITE says he knows "some useful knockabout niggers") and procession in and out of towns. Think I can boom it.

_Saturday_.--My connection with war ended. Calculate I start to-morrow with the Show across the herring-pond, to wake up the Crowned Heads of Europe!

* * * * *

TO THE BIG BACILLICIDE.

O DOCTOR KOCH, if you can slay Those horrid germs that kill us, You'll be _the_ hero of the day, Great foe of the Bacillus! What champion may we match with you In all the world of fable? St. George, who the Great Dragon slew, The Knights of ARTHUR's Table, E'en gallant giant-slaying JACK, The British nursery's darling; Or JENNER, against whom the pack Of faddists now are snarling, Must second fiddle play to him Who stayed the plague of phthisis, And plumbed a mystery more dim And deep than that of Isis. For what are Dragons, Laidly Worms, And such-like mythic scourges, Compared with microscopic germs 'Gainst which the war he urges? Hygeia, goddess, saint, or nymph, We trust there's no big blunder, And hope your votary's magic lymph May prove no nine days' wonder. We dare not trust each pseudo-seer Who'd powder, purge, or pill us; But pyramids to him we'll rear Who baffles the Bacillus.

* * * * *

STRANGE TRANSFORMATION.--From the _Times_ Correspondent, U.S., we learned, last week, that somebody who had been "a Bull," was now "a Bear." What next will he be?--A donkey? Or did he begin with this, and will he end by being a goose?

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PROSPECT FOR CHRISTMAS.--"TUCK," i.e., RAPHAEL of that ilk. The "Correct (Christmas) Card."

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"A PAIR OF SPECTACLES."

The first spectacle classic and Shakspearian: t'other burlesquian, and PETTIT-cum-SIMS. The one at the Princess's, the other at the Gaiety. _Place au_ "Divine WILLIAMS"! _Antony and Cleopatra_ is magnificently put on the stage. The costumes are probably O.K.--"all correct"--seeing that Mr. LEWIS WINGFIELD pledges his honourable name for the fact. We might have done with a few less, perhaps, but, as in the celebrated case of the war-song of the Jingoes, if we've got the men, and the money too, then there was every reason why the redoubtable LEWIS (whose name, as brotherly Masons will call to mind, means "Strength") should have put a whole army of Romans on the stage, if it so pleased him.

For its _mise-en-scène_ alone the revival should attract all London. But there is more than this--there is the clever and careful impersonation of _Enobarbus_ by His Gracious Heaviness, Mr. ARTHUR STIRLING; then there is a lighter-comedy touch in the courteous and gentlemanly rendering of _Octavius Cæsar_ by Mr. F. KEMBLE COOPER--one of the best things in the piece, but from the inheritor of two such good old theatrical names, much is expected. And then there is the _Mark Antony_ of Mr. CHARLES COGHLAN, a rantin', roarin' boy, this _Antony_, whom no one, I believe, could ever have made really effective; and finally. Her Graceful Majesty, Mrs. LANGTRY, Queen of Egyptian Witchery. Now honestly I do not consider _Cleopatra_ a good part, nor is the play a good play for the matter of that. I believe it never has been a success, but if, apart from the really great attraction of gorgeous spectacular effects, there is any one scene above another which might well draw all London, it is the death of _Cleopatra_, which to my mind is--after the fall of WOLSEY, and a long way after, too,--one of the most pathetic pictures ever presented on the stage. So lonely in her grandeur, so grand, and yet so pitiable in her loneliness is this poor Queen of Beauty, this Empress-Butterfly, who can conquer conquerors, and for whose sake not only her noble lovers, but her poor humble serving-maids, are willing to die.

Her last scene is beyond all compare her best, and to those who are inclined to be disappointed with the play after the first Act is over I say, "Wait for the end," and don't leave until the Curtain has descended on that gracious figure of the Queen of Egypt, attired in her regal robes, crowned with her diadem, holding her sceptre, but dead in her chair of state. _Ça donne à penser_.

_The Gaiety_.--In calling their burlesque _Carmen up to Data_, possibly the two dear clever boys who wrote it intended some crypto-jocosity of which the hidden meaning is known only to the initiated in these sublime mysteries. Why "_Data_"? On the other hand, "Why not?"

However attractive or not as a heading in a bill of the play, the Gaiety _Carmen_ is, on the whole, a merry, bright, and light burlesque-ish piece, though, except in the costume and make-up of Mr. ARTHUR WILLIAMS as _Captain Zuniga_, there is nothing extraordinarily "burlesque" in the appearance of any of the characters, as the appearance of Mr. HORACE MILLS as _Remendado_ belongs more to Christmas pantomime than to the sly suggestiveness of real burlesque.

As Miss ST. JOHN simply looks, acts, and sings as a genuine _Carmen_, I can only suppose that her voice is not strong enough for the real Opera; otherwise I doubt whether any better operatic impersonator of the real character could be found. She is not the least bit burlesque, and though the songs she has to sing are nothing like so telling as those she has had given her in former pieces, yet, through her rendering, most are encored, and all thoroughly appreciated.

Mr. ARTHUR WILLIAMS as _Zuniga_ is very droll, reminding some of us, by his make-up and jerky style, of MILHER as the comic _Valentine_ in _Le Petit Faust_. Mr. LONNEN is also uncommonly good as the spoony soldier, and in the telling song of "_The Bogie Man_;" and in the still more telling dance with which he finishes it and makes his exit, he makes _the_ hit of the evening,--in fact the hit by which the piece will he remembered, and to which it owes the greater part of its success.

In the authors' latest adaptation of the very ancient "business" of "the statues"--consisting of a verse, and then an attitude, I was disappointed, as I had been led to believe that here we should see what Mr. LONNEN could do in the Robsonian or burlesque-tragedy style. The brilliancy of the costumes, of the scenery, the grace of the four dancers, and the excellence of band and chorus, under the direction of that ancient mariner MEYER LUTZ, are such as are rarely met with elsewhere.

Mr. GEORGE EDWARDES may now attend to the building of his new theatre, as _Carmen up to Data_ will not give him any trouble for some time to come.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Only a Penny! And well worth every halfpenny of it. I am alluding to the Christmas Number of the _Penny Illustrated Paper_, in which appears _A Daughter of the People_, by JOHN LATEY, Junior, who is Junior than ever in December. Capital Christmas Number, and will attract an extraordinary number of Christmas readers.

_The Rosebud Annual_, published by JAMES CLARK & CO., is quite a bright posy for our very little ones.

Turning from novels, it is a relief to come across so inviting a little volume as the _Pocket Atlas, and Gazetteer of Canada_, which will be found of the greatest possible value to eccentric Londoners who purpose visiting the Dominion during the coming Winter.

"_Persicos odi_," but you won't agree with HORACE if you follow this "_puer apparatus_" of G. NORWAY, who, in _Hussein's Hostage_, gives us the exciting adventures of a Persian boy.

_'Twixt School and College_, by GORDON STABLES, has nothing to do with horsey experiences, as suggested by the author's name, but is the uneventful home-life of a poor Scotch laddie, who triumphs by dint of pluck.

_Nutbrown Roger and I_, by J.H. YOXALL, a romance of the highway, quite in the correct style of disguises and blunderbusses always so necessary for a tale of this kind.

_Disenchantment_ is the--not altogether--enticing title of "an everyday story," by F. MABEL ROBINSON, author of _The Plan of Campaign_. It is rather a long tale to tell, for it takes 432 pages in the unravelling. It ends with a beautiful avowal that "the heart is no more unchanging than the mind, and that love's not immortal, but an illusion." As the utterer of this truism is a young married woman, it would seem that the foundation is laid for a sequel to _Disenchantment_ that might be appropriately called _Divorce_.

_The Secret of the Old House_, by EVELYN EVERETT GREEN, who evidently can't keep a secret to himself, will be so no longer when the children have satisfied their curiosity by reading the book.